Bertie in Baltimore
by Heironymous Von Rickenback
Summary: Bertie Wooster and his gentleman's gentleman, Jeeves, get sucked through the Bermuda Triangle on their crossing to New York. They end up in 2000's Baltimore. Yeah, it's niche. Are you sure you want to click on this? Wouldn't you rather read another story where Draco Malfoy ends up in Narnia?


It was after that business of old Gussie and the lady zookeeper that I got to thinking - as I very often to get to thinking - of how dashed unappreciated I am in the country of my birth sometimes.

Having come to this conclusion, it was a tempting delight to receive from my Aunt Agatha an invitation, asking me to join her in New York for the autumn. When I say join her, you mustn't get the idea that we would be spending that much time together. One accepts an aunt's invitation, toodles over to New York, drags himself out of bed each day to slide himself into a jacket and bow-tie, accompanies the aforesaid aunt to a restaurant somewhere and then has the rest of the evening to himself. It isn't a bad sort of life.

"Jeeves." I intoned from beneath the breakfast tray.

"Yes, Sir." He replied instantly. He doesn't seem to need much time to traverse distances, you know. He sort of manifests.

"Jeeves, be so good as to throw a few suits in a bag. We will be heading to New York from Liverpool tomorrow morning, and staying there for a month."

"Yes, Sir." He dutifully replied.

I had expected him to duck out at that point to attend to his master's travelling warderobe, but his head was still visible at the bedroom door.

He coughed.

"Jeeves?"

"Will Sir be requiring his spats during his sojourn in the New World?"

"Rather."

Jeeves coughed again.

"Jeeves?"

"Are there any particular pairs of spats which Sir requires me to pack?"

I understood, of course. Whilst at our gentleman's outfitters the previous week, I had been rather taken with a pair of brown spats. I'd seen a few of the fellows sporting them around the Drones and I thought they had a certain demure elegance about them. Jeeves took the opportunity to politely diverge in his opinion of the matter. He had made it clear that spats were not the opportune article with which a gentleman should demonstrate his superior creativity with the colour palette. His view on the matter was that spats were best worn white, with the rest of a gentleman's ensemble the best canvas on which to paint his stylistic choices. He was wrong of course and, much as I do appreciate the fellow, it was one of those times when a fellow must put his foot down. You hear of these fellows whose valets have the whip hand over them. It begins with spats and ends with them organising a fellow's social calender, deciding which racing events he may attend and so on. I wasn't having it.

"Jeeves, your master requires you to pack the brown spats, which we purchased last week."

With no more protest than a miniscule narrowing of the eyes, he assented.

"Very good sir."

#

I won't bore you with the details of embarkation and visas as I know you've undertaken the passage to New York yourself and one's valet can undertake most of the paperwork on one's behalf.

The time spent on board is pleasantly frittered away. One enjoys a spot of breakfast at the buffet. A little quoits on deck. One snoozes in a chair. The bar is well stocked with cocktails and so on. All in all, a pleasant journey to undertake.

So it was this time, until the fourth day.

I was awoken in a most uncivil manner as my body was flung from my bunk against the wall of my cabin. Well, I mean to say. One moment you're dreaming away pleasantly, and then next the sea has bludgeoned you with the wall of a cabin. I was shaken, as I'm sure you can picture.

"Jeeves!" I said.

There he was. He was standing as upright as ever. He was maintaining his balance by holding onto a rail next to the bathroom.

"Sir?"

"What in the great heavens? I mean to say..."

Jeeves caught on immediately.

"I have ascertained, Sir, that a weather front typical of the North Atlantic in this season has met with the course of the vessel, causing the roughness we are currently experiencing."

My mind was still foggy, you know, having just woken up. Sometimes it takes one a moment to understand Jeeves.

"There's a storm?"

"There is, Sir."

"And it's choppy out, what?"

"Quite right, Sir."

"Well. Well I suppose these things to happen at sea don't they?"

"Indubitably, Sir."

"Well. We'd better batten down the hatches, hadn't we?"

"I have been the reliably informed that the hatches have been thoroughly battened, Sir."

"And reef the main sail."

It's surprising what metaphor can teach one about actual maritime practicalities.

"I doubt there will be any need for that, sir. We are under steam."

"Quite." I said. "Quite."

We remained in the cabin for the next few hours putting a brave face on it as only the British can, as the ship rocked back and forth through the Atlantic. By the time the sun came up on the last day of our voyage, the weather had cleared.

"Fine weather what? Still as a pond!" I shouted to Jeeves as he descended from the bridge to the deck.

"Indeed, Sir."

I gazed over at that strip of land as Columbus has presumeably done four hundred years previously. Or thereabouts. Dates aren't my thing.

"I would expect we would be able to see the Statue of Liberty by now, Jeeves. Wouldn't you?"

"There is some confusion on the bridge, Sir, as to the location of the vessel."

I took a beat to translate this latest offering of Jeeves'.

"We're lost?"

"That may be one way of putting it, Sir. The navigator informed me that we were taken by bad weather and upon his last reading we were passing Bermuda on it's South side."

I tried to picture the map in my mind. Bermuda did not immediately present it's location to me.

"Is that good?"

"No, Sir."

"Right. Well, there's nothing to worry about. America's over there, and we keep sailing - or steaming, rather - in that direction, we'll get there."

"Well put, Sir. The captain believes we are heading for the port of Baltimore in the state of Maryland. The Radio operator at the port, however, is not giving the standard signals in reply."

The weather was fine and I was feeling well recovered from my rough night aboard the steamer, and willing to look on the bright side.

"I doubt there's anything to worry about. As soon as they make out that we're a British vessel, they're sure to want to write any wrongs which may have occurred by fetching up some of that tea they so rashly threw in the river, and putting the kettle on to welcome their Old World chums."

"Indeed, sir."

"What's there to do in Baltimore, Jeeves?"

"I couldn't say, Sir. It was the birthplace of Edgar Allen Poe, and the scene of a battle in which the British bombarded the city. Other than that I have no knowledge of it."

"Very well then! A quick snifter to perk us up upon landing, then it's straight to Poe's birthplace followed by a tour of the battle scene."

"As you say, Sir."

#

Well, I'm not connoiseur of architecture. Some ports are said to be more beautiful than others. Those of us who have visited Venice have enjoyed an afternoon coffee looking out over the Adriatic. I've heard it said that the quality of the sunlight upon the waters of the Aegean, as enjoyed from a rooftop restaurant in Rhodes, is unmatched.

What they seem to go in for in Baltimore is huge boxes. Hundreds of huge rectangular boxes. Most of them dark red. It may suit them but I must say it left me cold.

As we made our way accross the gangway, we were being verbally accosted by a squat gentleman who was wearing an orange waistcoat, unbuttoned.

"What, are you fucking crazy? Are you fucking nuts? You can't dock a fucking passenger ship here! This is a container dock! Frank! Frank!"

He shouted back over his shoulder, evidently trying to rouse this Frank from one of the boxes which had been lent a certain homeliness by having a window and a door cut into it.

"Good afternoon, Sir!" I addressed the man. "Splendid day, what?"

He looked at my spats and back up at my face with a bewildered sort of look.

"I guess."

"Would you be able to direct me to the disembarkation office?"

"I keep tellin' 'em! You can't disembark here! Not unless you're a box of machine parts or a Japanese car or somethin'. We don't do people in big hats. Frank! Get out here you piece of shit!"

I felt a pang of sympathy for the fellow. He seemed overwhelmed at the volume of humanity flowing accross the gangplank into the port.

"Sir, are you not an official of the port?"

"I ain't an official anything, mister. I'm the horse."

As he spoke, another man strode purposefully accross the dock. He was balding and was wearing the same orange waistcoat as the squat gentleman, only fastened. From his reddening demeanor, I sensed he was acutely perturbed.

"What the fuck is this? I got three ships need to be unloaded before noon, and I got this fucking wreck blocking the main dock. This ain't fucking National History day. You need to get that fucking floating smoke machine out of here right now."

The squat man cut in again.

"That's what I keep tellin' 'em, Frank."

"Sir, may I?" Jeeves leant in to me. I gestured my assent.

Jeeves addressed the balding man.

"May I enquire as to your nationality, Sir?"

"We're Polacks. I bet you're going to have something to say about that, too ain't you?"

"I had a cousin who saw action in Poland during the war. He remarked that it was a delightful part of the world."

"Yeah, if it's so delightful why the fuck did we all end up here? And if you faggots are looking for some action they got special bars for guys like you."

"Perhaps you have misconstrued my meaning, Sir. I meant that he fought in Poland."

"Well it's about time some of you rich fucks started fighting for us. This Dockyard's been goin' to shit since the early nineties. Look at this shit! Look at this piece of shit!"

The balding man turned his attention away from us and stamped accross the gangplank, trying to hail the captain of the vessel using specific nautical nomenclature with which I was not familiar.

"I say, Jeeves, the fellow did mention a bar. Has our luggage followed us off the ship yet? Tally Ho, then! To a watering hole it is. Pip pip, friend Horse."

#

And so it was that we repaired to a hostelry in the vicinity of the dockyard. Wherever you go in the world, there is always a warm and welcoming purveyor of the elixirs which make life bearable. We took our seats between the snooker table and the bar and hailed the waitress.

"Madam! What is the signature cocktail of this establishment?"

She put down the glass she had been polishing and approached us.

"Well, the gentlefolk around here are particularly partial to something called a boilermaker."

"Splendid! Two fine, Baltimore boilermakers."

Suddenly my attention was attracted by a tapping sound. Turning my countenance in enquiry what was I met with but a young blind man, tapping a white stick on the bar near to my elbow.

"You fellows ain't from round here, are ya?"

Well it was obvious he had our card punched.

"Just off the boat from Liverpool an hour ago. Planning on spending the day here before frolicking home to New York."

"Frolicking, huh?"

The blind man turned his attention to the waitress. If it wasn't quite apparent that the man was blind from his stick and the fact that his eyes were covered, I would have said a look passed between them.

"Gentlemen. There is an unwritten rule in this... hostelry. Drinkers are required to purchase a drink for Mr Steven L. Miles."

"Well, if that's the done thing. Are you Mr Miles?"

"I am not. He is."

The blind man drew back to reveal the beneficiary of the drink. How can I put this. It was a duck. The duck sat on the bar wearing a tiny silver choker, ducking it's head into a saucer of beer from time to time.

Of course I burst out laughing. This is just the sort of hi-jinks which the fellows at the Drones and I go in for.

"I say, Jeeves. What?"

"Indeed, Sir."

Jeeves wasn't quite entering into the mirth to the extent that I was. He is slow to adapt his tastes when travelling.

Anyway, I began regaling my blind friend and the waitress with some of my tried and tested anecdotes and a pleasant atmosphere was struck. I have to say that the Boilermaker is not a cocktail I will be requesting when I arrive in New York. It is a fairly bitter concoction, which might benefit from the addition of some lime or demerera sugar. However, it's effect on the mood was pleasing, and I found myself in high spirits.

The mood was only darkened somewhat when our avian friend appeared to have imbibed a little more than was good for him, and fell from the bar onto my leg, leaving a dark green mark on my brand new spats.

"I say, Mr Miles! You've been on this toot too long! It's back to the barnyard for you."

This drew laughter from out blind friend and the waitress.

"Might I suggest, sir," Jeeves said, "that perhaps Mr. Miles thought this the best way to improve the elegance of Master's ensemble?"

Well, what? I have to say that just set me off. I won't stand being cut by my valet in that way. Especially not in front of new acquaintances.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Jeeves, pay the bill. We're leaving."

As Jeeves handed over the money, the waitress eyed it suspiciously.

"What the fuck is this? A Twenty's supposed to have Andrew Jackson on. Who the fuck is Grover Cleveland?"

"Don't trouble the gentlemen, Delores." Said our blind friend. "My business has been successful this month. I will cover their tab."

"Goodness, Sir. We couldn't possibly-" I said.

"Go on, Gentlemen. This is merely the standard hospitality of the Longshoremen."

The waitress shook her head.

"Jesus Christ, Ziggy. You got more money than fuckin' sense. Wait 'til your father gets to hear about this."

#

Once outside I took the opportunity to admonish jeeves in the strongest terms as we walked. There comes a time when a fellow has to let his valet know that the foot has been put down. That the young master is reaching the end of his limits. That tolerance is a commodity fast growing rare.

"I say, Jeeves!" Was how I put it.

"Yes, Sir." He replied. I imagine he caught the gist.

"Really!"

"Yes, Sir."

"I will not have you-"

"No, Sir."

As we walked, we passed into what I must assume was a negro beighbourhood. I have had rather a soft spot for our dark-skinned friends ever since I saw a particularly amusing rag act at Dances on the Roof, so I was delighted to see so many of them about.

"Right, Jeeves. We will settle this once and for all."

I saw a small group of young men gathered at a street corner. Their style of dress was not in keeping with the Savile Row fashions of the day - they were going in for baggy trousers and button-less shirts - but I felt the sartorial question was such a simple one that it could be settled by any gentleman of taste.

"Pip pip, what?"

I addressed a large man in a brown coat who appeared to be wearing two hats. He had a habit of rubbing his hands together, though the weather was clement.

"Choo want?"

"My valet and I are trying to lay to rest a question of spats. White or brown. What do you say, Sir?"

"You want whites, we got whites. You want browns, we got browns. Either one gon' cost you ten dollars."

"Marvellous! A purveyor of spats. To think that we should have the luck. Which colour are most gentleman of taste opting for this season?"

"I don't tell niggas what to buy, you hear me? Niggas who want a taste just be like, gimme two browns and a white, or something. 'Na mean?"

I was somewhat confused at this. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why a gentleman would want three spats, instead of the standard two. I assumed he must have been referring to pairs.

"So, in your professional opinion, gentlemen of taste are buying twice as many brown pairs as white pairs?"

"Yo. In my professional opinion, y'all niggers need to show some paper or get the fuck up off my corner."

Another man approached to join the great spat debate. It was obviously a problem which transcended a domestic difference of opinion between a Wooster and his valet.

"Kevin, what is this? These bitches buyin' or what?" This young man was somewhat sour of face. Strangely, he seemed to be wearing a woman's bonnet, untied.

The large man shook his head.

"I don' know, Bodie. These bow-tie ass niggas from New York or something. Talkin' some bullshit."

"Yo." He hailed us with the same greeting as his larger friend. "Choo want?"

"Young man, we are trying to settle a question-"

"Who you think you calling young, here? Nigga I _been_ slinging!"

I turned to my Valet, perplexed.

"Sir, I believe our friend is trying to convey that there is no reason to question his experience in the field. He has a long and decorated record as a salesman of gentlemen's lower-leg garments."

"Indeed. Well then your opinion in the matter will be most valued. White or brown, Sir. That is the question."

"Yo, if you some kinda undercover poe leese, y'all need to work on yo' cover. 'Na mean? You gonna show some paper or what?"

Discerning his meaning, Jeeves once again produced the American currency we had acquired before leaving London.

"Who the fuck is Grover Cleveland? Show me some Andrew Jackson shit or get the fuck outta here."

Jeeves coughed politely.

"Sir, are we to believe that these notes are not accepted as legal tender in the port of Baltimore?"

"Yo, I'll show you motherfuckers what's accepted as legal tender here."

The man walked to his car and ducked to examine the wheel arch. When he returned, he was holding a revolver. Now, I suppose it makes sense that when a local economy is based upon barter, that small arms are one compact way of exchanging value, but as a citizen of the metropolis, I was not at all comfortable having the useful end of the device pointed in my direction. This, I tried to make plain to him in the politest possible way.

"I say, Sir. I say!"

"Now, you buyin', or you bouncin'?"

Jeeves leant in to his Master.

"Sir, we appear to have a deficiency of legal tender. Perhaps we ought to opt for the second of our friend's suggestions."

I could hardly concentrate.

"I say, Sir!" I repeated. "Do be careful with that thing!"

Anyway, it turned out that my pleas for caution fell on deaf ears, because the next thing we knew, the bally thing had gone off!

#

When I awoke, I was in some sort of convalescence ward. It was mostly bare and decorated in white. Near to my head was a wireless which must've been picking up Morse Code, because all I heard from it was a beeping sound. I had rather hoped that they might tune it into some jazz, what with our being so near to New York, but that did not transpire.

"Jeeves!" As I sat up I felt rather a sharp pain in my ribs. I remembered the accident with the firearm and assumed it must have been where the round had grazed me.

"Sir?"

"I say, Jeeves, rally round and fix the young Master a cup of the finest, would you?"

"Yes, Sir."

Jeeves coughed.

"Jeeves?"

"There are two gentlemen here who wish to speak to you, Sir. Shall I show them in?"

"They're not bartering with small arms are they, Jeeves?"

"No, Sir."

"Very well, then."

Two gentlemen in suits entered. One a large, squat negro, the other a tousle-haired European.

The Negro waved something in a leather wallet towards me as he spoke.

"Mr. Wooster. Detective Bunk. Detective McNulty."

"An honour, gentlemen."

The large negro by the name of Bunk shot a sort of frown at his colleague, who shrugged.

"Now, Mr. Wooster, we've already got a picture of how the shooting incident took place from your... associate, but we need to take a statement from you."

"A pleasure to assist you in any way I can. I do hope that the young man who's revolver misfired does not blame himself."

The two men looked at each other for a moment. The Negro Detective tapped a bakelite pen against a blotting pad for a moment and then spoke again.

"Mr Wooster, would you mind telling us why you were in the vicinty of Franklin Terrace this afternoon?"

"My valet and I were trying to solve a disagreement which we were having on the subject of spats."

"Spats?" The European Detective didn't seem familiar with the concept.

The other Detective pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before speaking to his colleague.

"Spats, asshole. Like shoe covers."

The European Detective turned to me again.

"So you weren't there to buy drugs?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Heroin? Cocaine?"

"No. I have brought a preparation prescribed by my own dentist in London to deal with any pain in the old pearlers."

"So, let me get this straight. You didn't want to buy drugs. You wanted to have a conversation about shoes?"

"Spats."

"Right."

"Do you remember the guy's name? Who shot you?"

"We hadn't been introduced."

The negro detective shut his blotting pad.

"BNBG." He said, turning to his colleague. "Ain't this just fucking typical. Couple of white-ass clowns in fancy dress decide to walk up to a drug corner and start a conversation about what's in fashion, end up getting shot. All they got for us is BNBG." He rose from his chair and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The European detective looked at me with his eyes wide.

"Fuck did I do?" He asked.

I was at a loss to elucidate.

#

Anyway I must've dozed off again at that point and when I came to again there was another dark-skinned gentleman at my bedside. This fellow had an ingratiating smile and he wore a little beard under his lower lip which looked frightfully funny. I noticed he had a gold chain around his neck.

"Hullo." I said, by way of an ice-breaker, you know.

"Howdy partner. Welcome to Baltimore."

"I say, are you some sort of ombudsman?"

"Ombuds whatnow? I'm the mayor of this here town. You can call me Clay."

"A privelege, Sir!" I said. I declined to bow, what with my incapacitation.

"Now I heard you ran in some misfortune earlier, is that right?"

"Just a little misunderstanding. I was in conversation with some local tradesmen and a firearm was accidentally discharged in my direction. Silly really. Sort of thing you laugh about later. It'll tickle the fellows at the drones."

"Well shiiiiiiit." He said. He had a sort of way of stretching the word out. "Now I heard you brought some interesting legal tender with you, would that be the case?"

"Abso-spiffing-lutely. I wasn't informed at Thomas Cook that it had any peculiar value, but people seem interested in it."

I reached my pocket book from my bedside table and handed it to him. He studied the contents for a while before speaking.

"Now, what we have here is a nice some of money, but I think we can find a way to turn in into an even nicer little pile. Whaddyou say?

"

"You mean a wager? You've got a tip for the Kentucky Derby?"

"Shiiiiiit." I will say this for him. He knew how to get value out of that particular syllable. "Ain't a gamble if it's a sure thing is it? I'm talking about the goose."

"What goose?" I asked.

"The goose which lays the golden eggs of course!"

I swallowed. I thought for a moment and then I made up my mind.

"Jeeves?"

At once he was there.

"Yes, Sir?"

"I've decided I've had quite enough of Baltimore. The disembarkation official is a horse, ducks drink in bars, and the mayor is trying to sell me a goose. I want to go straight to New York."

"Yes, Sir. I have already taken the liberty of securing our passage upon the next available conveyance, Sir."

"Excellent. Will we go by train, Jeeves?"

"No, Sir." Jeeves looked slightly pained. "Greyhound."

I swallowed again. Well. I mean to say. What?

"Well if it gets us out of here, I'm happy to go by hippopotamus."

"Yes, Sir."

"Jeeves?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Burn the brown spats."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."


End file.
